


i was wrong

by persona_kath



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF, Youtubers
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Crying, Hurt No Comfort, Implied Relationships, M/M, gratuitous angst, local fool projects on white men more at 10, long philosophical talks, oops! all projection, this is also canon compliant because FUCK YOU that's why, we heard the theory that dream might be immortal and fucking ran with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28943928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persona_kath/pseuds/persona_kath
Summary: Dream's story draws its natural conclusion-- and he expects to rot away, live the rest of his days peacefully in prison.Too bad a visitor feels like rehashing it all.---basically, a dsmp!dnf angst taking place after the season 2 finale
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 214





	i was wrong

There isn’t much to do when it’s the end of your story. 

Dream looks up at the obsidian walls at the faintly flickering glowstone illuminating his cell. Bright enough to be a source of light, but not bright enough to see everything clearly. He’d arranged it that way to strip prisoners of comfort-- of truly _knowing_ their surroundings. And yet, here he is.

Trapped.

It’s hard to acknowledge it.

Like looking into the sun, attempting to close his eyes and forget it’s there, burning his corneas. Never looking away, pretending it doesn’t hurt, pretending it’s not marring him. But it is, and ignoring it will only hurt more. 

Dream tries to welcome it.

The hurt.

Tries to let the flickering flames fully engulf his heart, burn the pain away so it can scab over. So he can deflect. 

Tries to push it out in pages of words. Tries to drown it out by adjusting the clock ticking on the wall, tries to curl on the floor and sleep his mind away. 

He’ll admit it doesn’t really work. 

His hand reaches out to touch the obsidian wall.

He flicks the surface with a bitten-down fingernail. 

The sound rings out, but not for very long. Not long enough for him to get accustomed to the sound. The walls swallow the sound, consuming it whole. And then all that’s left is the metallic silence. It’s like the scent of metal on a netherite blade, the scent of copper in blood. Unpleasant, sticking to the back of his throat.

But he lets himself feel it. 

Because there’s not much else _to_ feel, when he’s here.

He hears a faint clicking noise. 

Dream tips his head upwards, cocks his head.

The light suddenly brightens, and Dream tilts his hand ever so slightly to avoid the glare. He leans his head back, turning towards the front of his cell as he hears voices filtering in through the wall of lava. 

“Face forward, George.” He hears Sam’s voice faintly, hears the clicking of buttons and the shifting of levers.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” George’s voice sounds strained, angry. Dream’s heart squeezes horribly, and he tries not to think-- tries not to dwell on his memories.

“... you realize you’re a very-- _sensitive_ case, right?” Sam’s voice is soft. “In normal cases I wouldn’t _allow_ someone like you to enter the prison and visit Dream. You’re too emotionally volati--”   
  
“I fucking _know_ , alright?” George snaps. “How long is it going to take the lava to drain?”

“A bit,” Sam replies calmly.

Dream tries to quell his heartbeat, the stomach-churning nausea roiling in his gut. He feels-- nervous? Anxious? Excited? Well-- no, it can’t be excited. Because he can’t-- he can’t apply such a _positive_ word to this. It doesn’t feel right. 

He hasn’t seen George in forever.

What is he-- what is he going to _say_ to George-- what will they--

The lava parts, and Dream cranes his head to look. 

“George?” Dream tries, his voice echoing across the chamber. 

George looks….

Well, it’s hard to describe George’s expression. His eyes are a bit red, almost bloodshot. He looks horribly exhausted-- whether it’s because he’s been affected by the Elder Guardians’ fatigue or if it’s because he’s genuinely tired, as Dream knows George often is-- well, he’s not sure. His lips are pressed into a frown-grimace, and his brows narrow ever so slightly as Dream speaks.

George’s hands ball into fists as he steps onto the stone bridge. He hears Sam begin to slowly crank a lever, and the stone bridge begins to shift. George walks along it, his gaze stony and sharp. 

“Really?” Dream murmurs. “Are you that scared? It’s not like I can do anything here.”

“Better to be safe than to be sorry,” George bites.

Dream raises his hands, a tired snort leaving his lips.

“Well, sorry,” Dream says softly. 

“ _Shut. Up,_ ” George grits out as he crosses the threshold, his footsteps reverberating throughout the obsidian cell. 

Dream shuts up.

George’s hand trembles, his lips mouthing over words that Dream can’t hear, stringing together meanings that Dream can’t rearrange, can’t pull into something tangible.

They stand there, in silence, as the lava begins to bubble again. As it bathes the cell in a faint, orange glow. The clock ticks, ever so softly. 

Dream presses himself against the wall.

George stands close to the lava, his face bathed orange and yellow. In the dim light, his haggard look becomes sharper, clearer.

He looks… _exhausted_. 

“So you’re here?” George says finally. Dream watches as George’s free hand trembles a little with the effort of holding still, hiding his barbwire intent. “Was it worth it, _asshole?_ Was all of this worth it? Manipulating everyone like a _selfish little prick,_ ruining everyone’s lives for-- for control? Holding everyone’s beloved objects over their heads? Was it _worth it_ , Dream? Now that you’re _here?_ ”

Dream leans back against the wall, looking down at one of the books scattered haphazardly across the floor. 

What is he supposed to say?

What words can really come to his defense here-- _I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, I didn’t mean to_ \-- he meant it _all_ at the time. 

Maybe part of him still _does_ mean it.

Still _does_ want control over every aspect of everyone’s lives on the server, a puppeteer pulling at thousands of strings strung to his hand.

He watches as George’s grip begins to shake, his eyes beginning to pool with tears.

“So you’re not gonna fucking say anything?” George shouts.

His voice rings through the chamber, reverberates through the obsidian.

“I come--” George struggles to speak. “I come all the way out here, do just enough to get out of fucking _bed_ to-to deal with you, and you’re not gonna say anything? You’re just gonna fucking-- sit here and watch me? Like you always did before-- like you did on the- on the day you _dethroned_ me?”

Dream lowers his head, looks at the ground. 

Part of him feels like he deserves it.

George’s anger, his hatred--

He tries not to think of the days before. The moments where he’d softly whisper to George about the future, about what laid ahead. Where they’d quietly watch the sunrise together, him and George and Sapnap. When they’d dip their toes into the water surrounding the community house, swim in its lake. 

But it’s all he can think about.

Because if he doesn’t think about the memories, what can he really think about? 

They’re all he has left.

“Sapnap told me what you did,” George whispers. “He told me that you said you cut us all off. You cut off everything you were attached to. Your pets. Your belongings. Your _friends_ .” George looks up, his gaze angry. Not like fire-- but like a riptide, a tsunami of emotion ready to consume everything. “You threw us aside for _power_ . For something-- _so_ fucking _stupid_. And-and you--”

George laughs bitterly.

“And you did it without saying _goodbye_.”

_You’re going to miss out on your chance to say goodbye to your_ best friend. 

Dream swallows now, something compelling him to respond.

“I-- I wanted to say goodbye, George,” Dream blurts out. “I really did, but I just--”  
  
George laughs incredulously.

“I don’t _believe_ you,” George says sharply. “You-- you just--” George’s gaze turns a touch more sorrowful. “I never thought I was-- _good_ enough for you, and you threw me away like it was-- like it was _nothing_ , and now you want to tell me that-that you cared enough to want to say _goodbye?_ Don’t you have anything fucking _better_ to do than lie to me again?”

“I’m not lying,” Dream rebuts.

Is he angry?

Does he have the right to be angry? To feel indignant at the fact that George doesn’t believe him, doesn’t want to _hear_ him out?

…

Probably not, but he feels it regardless.

“Sounds like a fat fucking load of shit to me,” George snarls. “All you’ve ever done is _lie_ and you want me to believe you now?”

“You don’t have to,” Dream murmurs. “I just-- wanted to-to say my piece. I really _did_ want to say goodbye, George. I _did_.”

“And yet, you didn’t,” George says quietly, his voice tinged with hurt. “So what does that make you?”

“A coward, I suppose,” Dream murmurs.

George falls silent.

“I-I couldn’t look you in the eyes,” Dream explains falteringly. “To say goodbye. I couldn’t’ve-- faced you in that moment.” 

George doesn’t respond.

Dream’s not sure whether that’s a comfort or if it’s a hurt.

“I think-- avoiding saying goodbye… it-it made me feel like you were still there,” Dream continues. His voice cracks a little as he speaks, warmth burning behind his eyelids. He reaches a hand to brush at it, trying to keep the tears at bay.

Does someone like him-- _deserve_ to cry?   
  
Deserve the relief of a _breakdown?_ _  
  
_

A breakdown that pours your heart out so you can finally begin to mend the broken pieces-- ones that have been broken over, and over, and _over_ again?   
  
_No,_ Dream thinks. _I don’t._

“Like it wasn’t over. Not yet.”

He wanted that control-- _yearned_ for it, even.

Over the narrative, over the written pages of his and George’s story.

Keeping the pen tucked in his pocket and a sentence unfinished meant that it could continue, so long as he could write.

But now he knows that even the unfinished sentence represents a coming to an end-- that the story can have a messy, unfinished and incomplete end. Does he regret not finishing the clause? Does he regret not putting the punctuation mark on the sentence before, does he regret not making it more open-ended--

“You’re right,” George breathes. “You _were_ a coward. Still are, a bit.”

The words cut cold, cold and _deep_ through his heart. 

But George is right.

Dream lowers his head.

“Not just a bit-- you’re _still_ a _coward_ , through and through,” George repeats. “And I’m not just gonna stand here-- and-and let you feel _sorry_ about yourself,” His words turn bitter. “ _You_ did this. You had it coming.”

George’s eyes are boring a hole into Dream-- he can _feel_ it. The anger, the rightfully _justified_ rage that he’s directing at Dream, it’s all present in the way Dream’s limbs feel heavy just from his stare.

He tries, he really does, to meet George’s eyes. Lifts his head up, pushes his vision directly towards him. But as soon as he hits George, he feels his eyes defocus and center on the wall behind him.

No matter what he does, or how hard he tries, he’s a coward at heart. Even after all of this, he still can’t look George in the eyes. 

“And now--” George continues. “Now you get to suffer the consequences.” 

Dream’s head is swimming. He knows everything he wants to say to George, to say everything he’s done and how regretful he is of them, yet he knows none of what he wants to say-- his mind keeps drawing a conclusive blank, tactfully avoiding the truth.

“I know,” Dream starts, settling on trying to end the conversation instead of spewing untruthful statements at George. He doesn’t want to lie, not anymore. “I’m sorr--” 

George cuts him off. “ _Don’t.”_ His tone is laced with a venom Dream’s never heard from him before, it startles him. “I don’t want your _pity._ You’ve hurt me enough, don’t-- don’t dig up old problems just to make yourself feel better.” 

Dream feels himself tense as George inhales heavily.

“If you-- if you were _sorry,_ you wouldn’t have done _any_ of this. Who did you think you were saving with this plan? With your--” He swallows, the words getting caught in his throat. “Your _stupid_ idea of heroics, of _martyrdom--_ you didn’t save _anyone_. You just made it worse.”

“But--” Dream says, his tone hushed. “I _am_ sorry, George. I-- I _know_ I fucked up, I know I did, but I just-- I just think,” 

“ _What?_ ” George interrupts him again, clearly impatient. His tone is sharp.

Dream’s voice wavers as he forces out the rest of his thoughts. “I think… I was scared. I-- I think I still am,” His eyes burn. “Scared, I mean. Of-- of losing what matters to me. Losing _who_ matters to me. So I just… lost them on my own accord.” 

George is silent, his face unreadable-- it’s unnerving. Dream continues. 

“I think I thought that if I just… got rid of caring about things, it would hurt less losing them in the end-- but clearly that wasn’t the case, and I can’t take back what I’ve messed up,” Dream’s voice grows smaller and smaller as he speaks. He feels like he’s caving in on himself, but he can’t quite seem to fight it-- can’t quite seem to keep his walls reinforced. “But it _hurts,_ George. _It hurts so bad.”_

He’s looking at his hands, now. Trying to keep himself from looking towards George-- from _reaching_ towards George. Silence stretches between them. Dream hears the bubbling of the lava, the ticking of the clock, his own sporadic breathing.

“And what do you want _me_ to do about it?” George’s voice is laced with disappointment; Dream doesn’t have to look up to see what face George is sending to him. He’s seen it one too many times to know how his brow furrows, how his eyes look downcast. “Feel sorry? _Forgive you?”_

“No, not at all, actually,” Dream responds immediately. “It-- it _would_ be nice, sure, but… I don’t deserve it. I’ve never deserved that, not from you, not from Sapnap, not from anyone.”

George snorts a little at that. Dream stomps out the way his heart jumps at the sound. “At least you’re self aware,” He pauses, mulling over his words. “Sometimes, I look back on all of… _this._ And-- and I wonder if I could’ve done something about it. About _you.”_

He pauses. Dream looks up to his face, finally, and his heart sinks-- it sinks at the sight of George holding in tears with all of his willpower. Dream meets George’s eyes just as he tries to finish his thought, voice barely above a whisper. It cracks. “If-- if I could’ve changed your mind. Maybe stopped this before it happened.” 

“Don’t even entertain that idea-- this was all I’m good for,” Dream says slowly. “Causing chaos and hurting people, apparently.” 

George’s inhale sounds broken, like his lungs ache just trying to breathe. “Don’t. Don’t start saying that now.” His voice is heavy with sorrow, Dream can hear how hard he’s physically straining himself to try and keep his voice level. “ _You_ were the one who decided that was all you were good for.” 

Emotions swirl heavily behind George’s eyes-- it guts Dream. _He’s_ the reason George looks like this, like he’s on the brink of shattering. Watching him reach up to wipe his eyes before continuing makes the hurt settle even more uncomfortably in his gut. 

“The Dream I remember was… kind. A bit shy, a bit of a twit, a moron, maybe. But-- But he was kind.” Georgs inhales, trying to steady his breathing desperately. Dream’s heart squeezes a little at George’s state. It _hurts_ , seeing George like this. “Maybe you were just lying to me. The whole time, about who you were-- but I look at you now and just-- wonder where you went.” 

_Wonder where_ you _went._

Was that part of him ever real?

The part that was content to pluck flowers, content to fish away his worries-- was it real?

Was the part of him that _wanted_ to hold George close to him real?

He tries to think.

Think back on those memories that he’s already worn thin, already pored over in his brain for the duration he’s spent here.

His happiness— his desires. They were _real_. 

That was real. 

Right up until he threw it all on the sacrificial pyre. 

“I-I’d like to think that piece of me is still here, somewhere.” He raises his hand, squeezes at his chest. Somewhere in his beating, traitorous heart, he’s still soft. A part of him still longs. Attaches to pets, objects, people. The part he’d scorned Tommy for. The part he’d tried so hard to stamp out of him. 

It’s still there. 

“I-I miss it, y’know?” Dream looks up at George, at his teary expression. “Being… happy, I guess.”

Happy.

The definition of happiness-- does it still exist in his dictionary?

What _was_ it?

Was it spending time with his friends?

Was it war?

Was it _really seeing everyone suffer?_

Was it seeing everyone struggle for their lives-- struggle against him, banded together?

What is it, really?

And what does it _mean_ to him? 

Does his story have a happy ending? 

Do villains get happy endings?

“I’m tired, George,” Dream whispers. “I’m really-- really tired of feeling like I have something to prove.” 

He’d done all this-- tried to prove himself _worthy_ of his intimidation, of his power. Ruined everyone’s lives. Destroyed the one thing that meant everything to him. Burnt his friendships to the ground, watched it all get consumed by the flames. Watched as the red strings tying him to everything around him-- just crumbled.

But what has that solved?

… nothing.

“... What was that something, anyways?” George says finally. “Seems like it was just a load of nothing in the end.”

It hurts.

To admit George is right.

But really-- what was he fighting for? Did he have _anything_ to prove?

“I…” Dream swallows. “I don’t remember.” He doesn’t. He genuinely doesn’t, not anymore. He remembers fighting for _something_ in the beginning-- a cause. A purpose, maybe. And even then, the purpose was flimsy-- to stop people from rising against him, to stop them. Really, if he just boiled it down-- he was fighting to win.

And he lost.

He lost in a pointless war he created himself. 

“I think after I lost you and Sapnap, I just… went off the deep end a bit,” Dream murmurs. “I think I started fighting for the sake of fighting. It--” he clenches his hand. “It was the only thing I-I _could_ do.”

George hums, ever so quietly.

“If-- if you don’t remember,” George whispers. “Then was it worth fighting for at all?”

_No._

_No, of course it wasn’t._

_None of it was worth it, because I lost you._

Dream wants so badly to speak, to blurt out his thoughts, to tell George that he’s so sorry, that he’d take everything he’s done back, if he could-- but knows at the same time there’s nothing he can say that will erase this. Nothing he can say will make this better.

He doesn’t know whether that’s a blessing or a curse.

“Was any of it worth it, do you think?”

George sounds quiet, contemplative from where he’s standing across the jail cell.

Dream swallows.

The lava bubbles a little.

The clock ticks.

“I mean, now that you’re here-- doesn’t look like you can do much else but think. I dunno. Maybe you haven’t thought about it at all--”

“No,” Dream murmurs. “I did. I have.” He leans his head against the obsidian wall-- it’s lukewarm and hardly a comfort. His eyes flutter shut, and he tries to spread his mind out thin. “It wasn’t… it wasn’t worth it at all. But I still have to pay. And rightfully so, I think.”

He pauses.

“I just…” Dream licks his lips, wetting them.

This place is always so dry.

“I sound like a broken record, probably-- but I… I miss you. And Sapnap.”

He misses it, he _does_.

Misses the quiet words, the roasting of marshmallows over a crackling fire. Misses counting the shooting stars, misses naming the fish in the community house’s lake. Misses all the quiet moments in a sea full of noise and chaos.

He braces himself to be yelled at, to be scolded for _missing_ the very thing he swore to destroy--

But it doesn’t come.

Surprisingly.

George’s response is soft, heavy.

“Yeah. I miss you too,” George murmurs. “Sometimes. Sometimes I wish I didn’t. Sometimes--” George swallows, flexing his hands, interlocking his fingers over and over again. “Sometimes it’s all I can think about.” 

Dream’s heart squeezes.

“Do you really?” Dream whispers.

George laughs.

The sound is joyless, like it’s just been squeezed out of him as a gut reflex. 

“I-- I’m not even sure, anymore,” George says softly. “Like-- I-I’m not sure _what_ I miss. The memories? You, physically? The-the _idea_ of you? It’s…” George pauses, looks down at his hands again. Dream thinks back-- right to when he could still hold George’s hand in a time where George still looked at him with fondness-- not fear or hate or pity. 

“I’ve… had time to think about it,” George continues. He sounds a bit distant, and when Dream looks into his eyes, he sees George’s eyes are misty, reminiscing over something that Dream can’t hope to understand. “I-- I kinda just… lie there, in bed. Not really… processing any of it.” 

Dream can’t count how many times he’s laid on the obsidian floors, perfectly uncomfortable.

Staring up at an unchanging ceiling, waiting and thinking and _wishing_ it could be different.

Dream laughs, his voice humorless.

“Yeah. I know how that feels,” Dream murmurs. “I spent-- a lot of time. On my own. Even before all of-- even before all of this. Just-- like that. Missing you. Thinking about it. Not really-- not really processing it.” He tucks his knees closer to his chest, tucking his face into his arms. 

“I-- I think it was a mix of all of those things,” Dream mumbles. “Like-- what you listed. Plus a lot of-- a lot of guilt. I don’t-- I don’t know how you were feeling at that time, but… mentally-- I had a lot of guilt. But-- but, y’know. What can you really _do_ , I guess-- I-I was already spiraling down. No escape hatch, no-no ladder or anything. Nothing left except to--”

Dream’s voice cracks a little, and he winces a little despite himself.

“Except to-- just imagine what it would’ve been like if I still had you. And-- and hurt people,” Dream says softly.

George shrugs, his voice sounding strained.

“I-- I don’t think I could’ve-- I could’ve _lived_ with myself,” George murmurs. His hand reaches up to toy with the fabric of his sweater-- the pale blue, frayed sweater that George likes, that he’s _always liked_ \-- “if I was still there-- with you. _Watching_ you do all that. I-- I still…” George runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back, letting his bangs fall back over his forehead. “I don’t know. It-it doesn’t feel good knowing-- _knowing_ I just let you do all of that. Like some stupid-- stupid pawn in your chess game.” 

Dream shakes his head, but doesn’t meet George’s eyes. 

“Y-you were so much more than a _pawn_ , George,” Dream says softly. “So, so much more.” He raises a hand, tries to rub at his eye, tears starting to cloud his vision. “I—I’m not sure I would’ve been able to— to do the things I did, had you been there.” 

George’s gaze turns sadder. 

“You can’t just say these things _now_ , not a—” George starts to say, but Dream cuts him off. 

“You weren’t the one who let it happen,” Dream says softly. “Y-you aren’t responsible for what I did— I still _chose_ to. I’m the one who fucked up. Not you.” 

Dream watches George’s expression change again, turning a mixture of melancholic and bitter. His grip trembles, his shoulders _shake._ Dream feels his heart twist again, violently— like a towel wringing itself dry. It hurts to see George like this— frail and flickering because of _him._

“Don’t say that. Not _now_ . Not after— not after you just—” George’s voice rises higher as he starts shouting— but he manages to catch himself right before he starts yelling again. George’s chest rises and falls rapidly as he takes a few breaths in the dry air, taking in the scent of sulfur and dust. “You fucked up. Now what? What’s left for— what’s _left_ for us? For-for all of this?” 

“I’m… not sure, George. I don’t think there _is_ much left. N-no matter--” Dream inhales deeply, feeling his lungs expand grounds him, even if just for a second. “No matter how fucking badly I _hate_ saying that. But I think-- I think that I fucked it up for real, this time. And you deserve…” His breath hitches in his throat. “ _So_ much more than I could give you. I don’t want you to search for something in a person that hurts you. You don’t deserve to be hurt.” 

By the time he finishes, his chest is heaving as he fights back the sob threatening to wrack throughout his body-- he manages to quell it. The air hanging between them is thick, the bubbling of the lava creating an uneasy atmosphere for them to both try and concentrate on their words in. 

Dream’s voice is quiet as he starts again. “You deserve someone to love you. And I-- I don’t think I could be that for you, not after all of this.” 

“But you used to be, didn’t you?” George’s voice is flat and bitter. “You hurt me, and you _loved_ me, and now what-- I just have to-- to fucking _deal with it?”_   
  
Tears brim Dream’s eyes, barely held back by the years of practice he’s had with this exact skill. Dream brings a hand up to cover his mouth, knowing his voice is too small to deliver his thoughts without breaking. 

“I never stopped, George. I-- I don’t think I could stop if I tried.” Dream inhales, the breath making his diaphragm stutter completely. “But there’s nothing for you in me, all I’d do is hurt you. Even if I tried not to, I’m just-- just a catalyst. And I-- I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I did that to you. I can barely live with myself now, from what I’ve done.” 

Running his hand down his jaw, Dream lets his arms fall into his lap as he presses his head back against the obsidian walls. His voice is barely above a whisper— he doesn’t dare raise it any higher. 

“You matter too much to me, George. I-- I tried to convince myself I could… _stop._ Stop caring about you, stop caring about _everything,_ but I can’t. I can’t do it.” 

George sharply inhales.

The silence is charged.

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” is what leaves George’s mouth.

Dream looks up to see George’s expression screwed up in pain. 

“Really— you-you’re just— you’re _such an idiot_ , you’re just sitting here and-and _dumping_ all your feelings on me,” George shouts, balling his fists tightly. “And then— and then just making me _deal_ with the aftermath! _Again!_ After the _shit_ you pulled with the king of the SMP. After the _shit_ you pulled with the community house.”

_Selfish._

Dream remembers George’s face, screwed up in tears as Dream dealt the killing blow, severing the link that connected them together. 

Dream had thought he was doing the right thing.

By severing his own connection to George, people wouldn’t have to associate George with him. He wouldn’t be associated with George— wouldn’t be _attached._

Well, obviously it hadn’t worked.

Not at all.

Dream’s voice cracks a little as he continues to speak.

“I-I know, George, I know. I’m sorry,” he whispers. He wipes at his eyes, desperately attempting to stem a flow that hadn’t yet burst. He sharply inhales, his heart pounding out of his chest— “Just-just _go_ , find somewhere else to think about this. Tell Sam to send you back— I- all I’m doing is upsetting you, and I don’t want to-to hurt you more than I already have.”

George slams his fist against the obsidian wall. 

It doesn’t ring out, not _really._

Dream watches as George’s eyes narrow with pain, keeping his fist still against the wall. 

“I’m _not_ going anywhere,” George growls, his voice bordering on a desperate snarl as tears continue to pool in his eyes, starting to trickle down his cheeks. “I— I just…” George steps away from the wall, pacing in the cramped space. His hands flex a little, his free hand coming up to rub his bruised knuckles. “I— I’d thought of so much— that I-that I wanted to _say_ to you, because of how— how _angry_ I was. At you. At the _shit_ you pulled.”

_I’m sorry._

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—_

Dream wants to shout it to the high heavens, beg for George’s forgiveness—

But he can’t.

But he _shouldn’t_ , because he doesn’t deserve forgiveness— not from George, not from anyone—

“And now I look at you and—“ George’s breath trembles as he sighs, dropping his shoulders. “And I just— feel _sad_. I can’t even—“ He pauses again, running a hand through his hair. His eyes swim with hurt, swim with emotions that break Dream’s heart, knowing that he’s the one who pushed all of them into George— 

George’s next words are defeated. Resigned.

“I’m so, so tired,” he murmurs. “So tired of being angry. Of being sad. Of trying to-- to run away from you. Of having to feel— of having to _feel any_ of this. All I ever wanted— all I _ever_ wanted were my friends. To spend time with them.”

Dream’s chest racks with sobs as he holds his hands to his chest, squeezing them tightly over his heart.

His traitorous heart, that continues to beat for someone else.

“You didn’t deserve to have that stripped from you,” Dream whispers, his voice trembling. “I’m— I’m so sorry.”

He hears another slam.

George’s arm trembles with fatigue, his fist shaking as it slams into the obsidian wall, hardly leaving a dent in the surface. A sob leaves George’s lips as he presses a hand over his mouth, nearly collapsing to his knees. 

“ _Stop_ telling me you’re _sorry_ ,” George bursts out as he sobs into his hand, drawing his shoulders up and trying to make himself smaller in the room, pull away from Dream. “You— you _can’t_ . You can’t just— _fuck you_ . You can’t just fucking— _act_ like you’re-you’re sorry, and then just— make me wish that I could-that I could _hate_ you easier. That I could _stop_ wanting you— wanting you _back_ . Wanting you _here_ , with me— after _all you’ve done_.”

Dream reaches his hand out, out of impulse— to _what_? To hold George? To take away the hurt? To take away the broken mirror shard in his heart, turning his view of the world dark, the one that Dream put there himself with his betrayal— his grip falters a little as he tries to organize what he wants to say.

Sorry doesn’t cut it, he _knows_ that, and yet that’s all he can say, because he’s got nothing else.

“I wish it was easier,” George says hoarsely. “I wish it was easier to just forget you. I want to and yet I _don’t_ want to, and it’s just going to _kill_ me, Dream—“ George muffles another sob through his hand, squeezing his eyes shut. 

Dream’s heart cracks.

This is his fault, _his_ fault that George is like this, feels like he’s breaking—

“I—“ Dream’s voice trembles. “I don’t know what else to _say_ , George. I— I don’t know what else to say besides ‘I’m sorry’ and that I-I wish you could forget me too.” 

Does he believe that? 

He wants to be selfish. He wants George to remember him, to know him— and yet because of everything he’s done, he knows that his wish is the last thing that should be granted.

And yet he _wants_ it.

It doesn’t matter, and yet it’s the only thing that matters.

“You— you shouldn’t have to feel this,” Dream stammers quietly. “Not about me. Not about anyone. I-I don’t want you to feel like this— and it—“ He pauses. “I can’t _do_ anything about this, George. I want— I want to take your pain away, and I-I want to be there with you, and I— I want to _take this back_ so, so badly, but I _can’t_.”

His voice thins, gives out. 

He wants it.

He _wants_ George to be happy, more than anything.

“You know what the worst part is?” 

George’s voice is so small.

Frail. 

A pin’s drop away from shattering like a glass bottle thrown against a wall. 

“I-- I still want it. Your hurt. Your-- _all of it._ ” George’s voice quivers, another sob catching in his throat. His breathing is ragged. “And it fucking _sucks_ , Dream.” 

_I want your hurt._

Dream mulls over the words in his head, feels his heart sink at the weight of… would you call that a confession? It certainly feels like an admission, a secret of something so, _so_ tender in nature-- but he’s not sure.

_Confessions are supposed to feel good,_ Dream thinks. _They’re supposed to get the weight off your chest-- pull the weight off of your lungs to help you get room to breathe._

Though as much as he tells himself that, he finds his lungs aching more and more.

It feels like someone’s pressing stones onto his ribs, and all he can do is lay there and feel his bones crack, feel his chest give way. _More weight_. 

Dream feels the flames licking at his heart-- breathing burns, yet he continues, ignores the pain. “I’m-- I don’t-- I don’t want to say that I’m sorry, because I _know_ you hate it, but I feel bad that you-- you feel this shit.” He pauses, trying, and failing, to keep the tears from falling. “That you _want_ to feel it, because of me. I just--” He rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palm. “If I could take this away from you, I would. If I could take it _all_ back, I would. If I could-- if I could give you my _everything,_ take away your hurt entirely, I’d do it in a heartbeat.” 

“You can’t just keep telling me that you wish it would be different. You-- don’t fucking _do_ that to me, Dream.” George laughs wetly, the sound weak. “You’re so-- so _cruel._ Even now. Even when you can’t _do anything.”_

He’s right, Dream _knows_ he’s right. He’s told himself over and over since getting thrown into the cell that this was _his_ fault, that _he’s_ the shitty one in this situation-- but it hurts. It hurts to hear his faults explained to him, but that doesn’t erase the truth to George’s words. 

Dream’s body racks with silent sobs, his stomach feeling absolutely gutted as George speaks. His throat clenches tightly— it hurts to _breathe_ , hurts to move. His breath comes out in weird little gaspy hiccups as he tries not to make too much noise, tries to—

What is he _defending_?

He doesn’t have anything left to hide.

His pride, stripped bare before George, before the server—

He doesn’t deserve to hide.

“I—“ Dream heaves a little, through a stifled sob. “I guess it’s all I’m good at, then.”

He’ll resign himself to it.

He’ll just—

“This is why you should’ve left, George,” Dream whispers. “I don’t want to keep hurting you, but apparently that’s all I’m— I’m capable of.”

_You were the one who decided this was all you were good for._

But it fits.

It _fits_ , so what else is he supposed to say? 

He can’t change the only thing he’s good at— the one thing he built himself to do. To destroy and take apart. 

He can’t ever be responsible for putting George back together.

And he knows George wouldn’t _want_ him to. 

They sit in silence.

In the soft sound of the lava bubbling, the clock ticking.

“And then what?” George asks quietly.

Dream lifts his head to see George’s eyes, tears and bloodshot. In the warm light, the tear tracks on his cheeks are so _incredibly_ visible.

George looks beyond worn out.

Because of him— because of everything he’s—

“And then what, Dream?” George repeats. “You wallow in your misery forever? Just feel sorry for yourself? That’s still the coward’s way out.”

He is. He’s cowardly, he’s so, _so_ cowardly. 

Dream feels like he’s on fire, the edges of his very being charring and folding in on itself.

“It’s the one thing that’s left, isn’t it?” Dream mutters bitterly.

There’s nothing else.

Because when they run out of books, when the clock’s needle stops spinning, when the water in the cell drains— what will be left?

Just him.

And what is he worth, _really?_

“It’s either that, or die—“ Dream laughs, his voice humorless. _It’s not your time to die,_ Dream remembers saying to Tommy as he punched him away from the lava. Tommy had looked at him, then, his eyes so hollow— _It’s never my time._

_My time can’t come soon enough._

Is what he’d say, but—

Time had cut him from its hold a long time ago.

“And either way, I look like a coward,” Dream says softly.

He hears George sniff a little, a tiny laugh leaving his lips.

“You do,” George says. He pauses a little, leaning against the wall as he fidgets with his hands, with the hem of his sweater. “It’s— so tiring. To hold onto all of this, Dream.” George’s gaze is downcast, and a shaky exhale leaves his lips. “I’m just… so tired. Of all of it. You know?”

Dream knows.

Knows so well, that feeling of exhaustion—

The exhaustion of _living_ , ever since he relinquished the name _Cornelius._ The very exhaustion of living which pushed everyone away, which made him hunger for something more than his banal existence—

“I do. I know,” Dream murmurs. “I promise I understand, George.”

He looks up to see George’s eyes.

Pale blue and brown, glazed over with emotion bordering on too much.

It’s different than how Tommy looked, when Dream pressed him to his limits, pushed him over the edge—

George doesn’t look empty yet.

He’s not _hollow_.

Broken, yes— but Dream believes that George could put himself back together if he strode for it, if he threw his all into it, as Dream knows George so often does— 

“I’m tired, too,” Dream whispers.

He’s so tired of surviving.

Of having to live, barely scraping enough to continue fighting for a cause that he doesn’t even think is worth it anymore. A cause that never was _worth_ it, a shitty cause for an even shittier prize. 

“You know, I…”

George’s next words break him.

“I…. forgive you,” George says hesitantly. “I think. But— not for you.” George taps his hands against the wall, his gaze downcast. “Not for you or your relief. But because…” George wets his lips, mouthing over words that Dream, once again, can’t hope to understand, can’t hope to interpret— “But because I can’t just… keep holding onto this. Burdening myself with hatred.”

Dream thinks he understands that feeling.

That moment, where you’re so desperate for any kind of feeling that you’ll lash yourself with heavy lead weights, a hatred so all-encompassing that it wears you to the bone. 

That moment where you drink a poison that by all intents and purposes should _kill_ , but you drink it because it’s the only way you'll feel anything at all. 

“I was thinking about it,” George murmurs, his hand reaching up to squeeze at his arm. “On those days where everything was just-was just happening and I didn’t even want to leave my bed. Thinking about all that hurt. What to do with it.”

George pauses, running his hand through his hair.

Dream can’t help but see it— _see_ George, a blanket pressed to his face, curled in the quiet of his house, shutting out the entire world. 

It hurts.

“Just… seeing you… made it all clear, you know?” George says. “I’d— even, even despite everything, despite all this— all this _hurt_ , I’d— I’d rather just— let _go_ . Of it all.” George looks down at his hands, and Dream can see the blisters, the bruises forming from slamming his fist into the obsidian wall. “If it doesn’t matter in the end— if-if at the end of the day, we all just— _fade_ away and this server becomes something new, without us— then… then the least I can do is forgive you. For me.”

Dream doesn’t know what he feels as those words leave George’s lips.

Better?

Well, not _better_ , not really.

Does it feel like he’s finally allowed to loosen his shoulders, let go a little?

Not really that either.

But forgiveness isn’t for him to take. It’s not for him, not for him and his feelings, not for him and his selfish desires, not for _him_ — 

And yet.

_And yet_.

Dream lifts a hand to his eye, finds the tears silently pouring down his cheek, dripping down his chin. He wipes at it, attempts to stem the flow. It doesn’t— it doesn’t _really_ work. Not quite.

“... Thank you,” Dream whispers, his voice hoarse. He looks up at George, at his blue and brown eyes still glistening with tears in the orange light. At George’s face, thin and haggard and far too tired, tired of feeling, tired of living and surviving, like him— “I just want you to be happy, George. Nothing else— nothing else matters at this point.”

Attachment.

Sentimentality.

Things that he shouldn’t want, shouldn’t need—

He clings to them now, clings onto the last thing he has, desperately.

“I know,” George whispers. “I know.”

He knows, and that should be enough. 

But it isn’t, has never been enough—

“I hope you can forgive yourself,” George adds quietly. “For you. One day, at least.”

Does he deserve to forgive himself? 

Is he worthy of that? 

It doesn’t feel like he is. 

He deserves to wallow in it, to wallow in his _guilt_ for being _horrible_ and doing despicable, _horrible_ things to others in the name of public good. But the guilt won’t do anything. Begging for forgiveness from other people, for clemency, while simultaneously wallowing in his own victim mentality—

It doesn’t get him anywhere. 

It won’t. 

“It might be easier,” Dream murmurs. “Because you forgive me.”

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever forgive himself.

If he’ll ever _let_ himself-- 

“... Alright,” George whispers softly. 

What is George thinking, behind his carefully created mask?

Does Dream deserve to know?

He-- he _wants_ to know, so badly--

“Maybe,” George starts. Dream cocks his head as George continues to speak, his voice hesitant. “It-it’s kind of silly, but I-- I think we could… maybe we could start over. Reintroduce ourselves, maybe.” George wrings the hem of his sweater again, under his fingers. His voice becomes smaller as he speaks, uncertain. “A-after all, we’ve got all-- all the time in the world.”

_Time._

A luxury, really.

What does it really mean?

To have all the time in the world-- to be held in suspension.

He’s been held in suspension for far too long. 

And yet-- George is looking at him, with such hope and-- apprehension. Is that what it is? It’s-- it’s so hard to place. But, as Dream really looks at him now, really _sees_ him for who he is-- he can’t help but see the same eyes that looked at him with love and joy. With-- with an emotion that used to make Dream’s heart _soar_.

Dream wants to see that expression again.

Selfishly, desperately.

With all he has.

So he reaches out, stretches and grips for the lifeline George holds out between them, a tightrope waiting for its dancer. He steps across it, balancing as best as he properly can-- because if he doesn’t, he’ll lose this opportunity, he’ll truly lose _everything--_

“Hey, it’s… nice to meet you,” Dream tries gently, holding out his hand across the threshold between them. George looks down at Dream’s hand, his expression-- conflicted mixed with shock. Apprehensive now, more than ever. “I’m Dream. Do you-- do you hang out in jail cells often?”

George laughs.

The sound is just genuine enough that Dream’s heart races, soars a little with the implication. They can’t recapture their most beautiful moments in life-- the annual flowers, withering away never to come back. And yet, Dream yearns, beyond words-- for a chance to plant a perennial, to _bring_ something back--

“Mmm… no, not really,” George says softly, crossing the expanse to shake Dream’s hand. “But nice to meet you, Dream. I’m George.” 

  
Their fingers intertwine for just a split second--

And Dream hates how he attaches himself to it, how he _yearns_ desperately for it--

George’s eyes glimmer a little, a semblance of a spark that Dream’s chasing after. His traitorous heart flutters, wonders how he can pull that out of George again.

Unwillingly, he pulls his hand from George’s.

It’s pathetic just how quickly he misses the warmth.

How he wants to just-- hug it to his chest, keep it safe.

To warm his entire body with a _semblance_ of George’s warmth. 

But that’s asking for too much, he knows.

He _knows_.

“Well, what’s got someone like you in here?” Dream asks.

George hums a little, his eyes becoming a touch more contemplative.

“Well, I broke in,” George replies. “I thought-- I thought it’d be a nice visit. What’s got someone like you in this cell, anyways?”

What’s the best way to approach this? 

What’s the _right thing_ to say here?

Dream doesn’t want to ruin the atmosphere-- doesn’t want to destroy it all, like he’s built to-- 

He nods a little, resting his cheek on his hand.

“I-- did some stuff that I regret. A lot. So-- so now I’m here.”

George’s expression fades a little, the spark leaving. _Come back. Come back,_ Dream wants to say. _Look at me. Look at me, at what’s right in front of you. Please._

But he won’t be that selfish, he won’t beg.

George doesn’t-- doesn’t _have_ to look at him in the way Dream wants him to, wants it all--

“I see,” George murmurs. “At the very least you regret it, right? That should count for something.”

Does it?

“Better than being dead, in any case.”

If only he _could_ be.

Dream leans back, looking up at the unchanging ceiling. It’s held in suspension, a worn structure just like him. Except neither he nor the prison will be torn down, one out of the inability _to_ be torn down, and the other out of obligation.

“I do regret it, yeah,” Dream murmurs. “But I’m not sure if it means anything.”

It doesn’t.

_Now it’s your turn._

_  
_ _Put your armor in the hole._

He deserved it. One-hundred-percent. 

He deserves this sentence-- permanent reparation for his crimes.

He _deserves it,_ and nobody has to forgive him.

Dream runs a hand through his hair, lets it fall back down across his face as he continues to speak.

“I think-- I think it would’ve been easier if I had died,” Dream whispers. “If I do, at some point. Might let some people move on easier.”  
  


Death.

What does that _mean_ to someone like him, stripped of even that?

He’d lied about only being on one life, after all. His lives are in permanent suspension, nothing _just_ or _heroic_ enough to grant him clemency. To grant him an escape. Even if Tommy had ran him through with his sword a couple thousand more times, he’d find himself being pulled right back. His body knitting itself back together, a soul unable to finally fucking _leave_.

“I don’t know about that,” George replies, his voice quiet. As Dream studies his expression, he sees George’s eyes misting over a bit, canting his shoulders upwards towards his ears. “Maybe it’ll hurt more. If you do. A-a guy like you-- at least as someone waiting for you when you get out-- when you do, right?”

Does he?

_Would_ George wait for him?

Wait for him to--

To _what?_ To prove himself as someone changed, as someone ‘better’ than everything he’s done?

“I--” Dream looks down at his hands, hard and calloused from days he spent training with George, working with George, _existing_ with George. “I-I never thought about it like that, honestly.” He clenches his fist, finds his grip weaker than it’s ever been in his life. He’s gotten used to it, but it still catches him off-guard-- and his hand trembles. “But I’m-- I'm not sure when I’m getting out. If I will at all.”

He doubts Sam will let him out.

He doubts that the SMP will have a change of mind, will say _“You deserve to go free.”_

Because even he doesn’t think he should.

“Whoever’s waiting for me might be waiting for a long time,” Dream says softly. He looks up at George, stares directly into his eyes. George’s eyes are still misty, but focused completely on him. There’s a desperation behind Dream’s gaze, one that he hopes George reaches out to, grasps onto. His voice cracks a little as he adds, “A _long_ time.” 

And George smiles at him, his smile so _broken_ and yet so full of hope.

It’s a beacon of light blasting through the fog after a hefty thunderstorm-- and Dream reaches for it.

Dream can see tears pooling at the corners of George’s eyes, the way George’s body shakes as he holds his breath, tries to muffle the bubble of misery threatening to pop out of his mouth. 

It sucks. 

All of this-- fucking sucks. 

The preamble, with the abstract on the paper that marks George’s tragic lovelorn tale with the antagonistic-love interest behind bars. 

The story, one with the cast of characters that always seems to have given George the short end of the stick, desperately grasping at straws, hoping for a better ending. 

The ending, one that’s entirely predetermined. One that Dream wishes he could change every day. Because George deserves a happy ending. Deserves white picket fence love, paired with daffodils and daisies. Deserves someone who will give him the world, treat him right.

But that’s not something he can give George. Not something he thinks he _should_ give. 

Not yet.

It fucking _sucks._   
  
Yet-- “I’m sure they’ll wait for you.” George swallows, his voice equal parts tender and bitter, settling at an almost inaudible volume. “For as long as it takes.” 

Dream’s breath pulls from his lungs, similar to how it feels to get the wind knocked out of you in a fight. George’s expression is… broken. 

Broken beyond a point Dream has ever seen-- beyond a point Dream ever wants to process he forced him to. But he has to-- he has to know how badly this has hurt, how badly this fucking _sucks._ For the both of them.

“You--” Dream inhales, his shoulders shaking. He traces his eyes over George’s face, eventually landing on his eyes again. He looks into the eyes that show all of the hurt he’s caused, all of the bullshit he’s forced George to go through. George’s words are still registering, still trying to process their weight through Dream’s head to properly accept the weight of his words. He starts again, slowly-- cautiously. “You... really think so?”

George smiles again, hesitantly. 

His hand toys with the edge of his frayed sweater again-- it’s so thin, threadbare from how many times it’s been stretched, reworn, stretched again. It’s on the brink of turning into string, of fading away altogether. 

Maybe that’s what Dream wishes he could be-- 

Something frayed, something to be discarded.

Dream watches as George breathes uneasily, his Adam’s apple bobbing ever so slightly.

“I-- I think so,” George whispers, his voice cracking a little even with the tiny volume. “Maybe-- maybe you’d be worth it to them. In the tiniest way.”

Does he believe it? 

Does he _dare_ to believe-- 

Dream’s breath hitches in his throat, the lump in his throat growing exponentially. He fiddles with the zipper on his hoodie-- fights down the memories filtering through his mind-- fights down the memories of giving it to George when they were out exploring. When they were out hunting. When they were… together.

It feels like a different Dream-- a different person, in a different life-- who did that for George.

That got to see George’s bashful gaze, hold his freezing hands in the middle of the snow.

Maybe it was.

“Even after everything I’ve done?” Dream asks, raising his hand to feel more tears trickling down his cheeks. They dry on his cheeks in the dry air, taste like salt. “Do you _really_ think that I’m-- that I’m _redeemable?_ After this?”

Surely not.

No way George thinks he’s even got a _chance_ at redemption-- at being able to fix anything he’s done. He knows it’s already far too late for that. He _knows_. 

And yet he hears George laugh, bitterly.

Sees him fiddle with a thin strip of string, and Dream’s heart pounds in his chest, remembering that piece of thread— sees a clumsily shaped orange bead and a perfectly symmetrical green one. Dream remembers those— the friendship bracelets they'd made together, the ones they swore would become wish bracelets: the kind you made with a wish in mind, the kind you watched fray and break when your wish came true. 

It hurts. 

Thinking about those memories. 

“I thought I wasn’t—” George sniffs, raising a hand to rub at his eye roughly. “I thought we were s’posed to-- to be starting over, Dream.” George giggles a little, the sound saddened and strained. “Well— maybe. Maybe you are. Maybe you aren’t. The-the truth is that— we’re all a bit beyond redeeming, aren’t we?” 

They were just a handful of stupid people, granted power by nonexistent gods, by selfish wishes, by senseless greed. 

And they’d used their power to hurt. 

Dream knows he’s hurt. 

He’s hurt so many people.

He’s hurt _himself_ , letting himself burn and burn and _burn_ just so he knew he was still alive. Still _doing_ something. 

And yet he watches George fiddle with the bracelet, watches George toy with the frayed ends of the string, where the knot’s loose ends are far too long and far too loose to still be a tight cord. He misses seeing George fiddle with the bracelet as they talked in the low moonlight, in the Drowned farm they’d built together. 

Dream wishes he still had his sword, so he could take the matching friendship bracelet off the end-- so he could show that he still _cares,_ has _always_ cared about George-- about Sapnap-- about the people he keeps tight to his chest, hidden away out of shame. Shame, fear, _hypocrisy--_

And now Tommy has his sword.

Tommy probably untied the bracelet, probably threw it out.

He supposes it’s what he deserves.

“Yeah-- you might be right,” Dream says softly, his voice dropping into a whisper. “I’m-- I’m glad we’ve met here, George. For the first time.” 

George’s body trembles slightly, he rubs his eyes with his sleeve. The sleeve comes away from his puffy eyes wet with barely concealed tears. He _looks_ like a mess-- Dream doesn’t doubt that George probably feels like one too, what with the mixture of fatigue and built-up hurt and anger. 

Dream knows George’s never been the kind to wear his heart on his sleeve, but it’s hard to keep up an impenetrable facade when you’re being attacked from all angles like a tree trunk struck repeatedly by an axe. 

“Yeah,” George hiccups a little, covering his mouth with the same sleeve in an attempt to muffle it. “I-- I’m glad I’ve met you, too. F-for--” Dream tries to ignore the way George’s voice cracks, how he sounds _so_ incredibly small. “For the first time.” 

They both know it isn’t good to lie, but what else can they do?

Lying hurts, lying _stings,_ sure-- but the truth _aches._

Being honest would mean letting the pain _settle,_ seep into their bones, into their hearts forever-- but lying is quick. 

Lying is easy, honesty is difficult. And neither of them feels up to a challenge. 

In the quiet, Dream finally allows himself to _feel_ his emotions, if only by a fraction.

The guilt washes through him, a gentle tide slowly growing stronger, pulling him away from the shore, pulling him away from any false sense of security or hope. It’s the strongest he’s ever felt-- about _anything_ \-- and he doesn’t know what to do. How to fight against it, how to _deal_ with it in a way that’s not destructive, in a way that doesn’t hurt himself or other people--

“Y-yeah,” Dream replies, his mind fading out a little as he speaks. “I-- I guess I’ll… see you soon?”

He pretends to ignore the way George’s breath hitches, the way George retreats into himself again, tries to erect crumbling walls that have long since rotted away, grown decrepit.

“Hopefully. If-if you want to come see me.”

He’s in a losing battle against himself. He doesn’t have any control over his emotions-- they slip through his fingers, like sand torn away into the shrieking tide. It’s a war of attrition; battle, after battle, after battle, pushing himself to his very limits with nothing to show for it except bone-breaking exhaustion. 

A hollow laugh slips past George’s lips, the lump in his throat audible. He sounds so forlorn, so _lost._ “I-- I ma--” A voice on the other side of the lava cuts him off.

“Are you okay in there?”

Sam’s voice is soft, somewhat concerned, yet still authoritative.

George’s eyes widen a little, and he whirls his head back towards the sound of Sam’s voice. 

“Y-yeah, I’m almost done,” George replies, his voice shaking.

“Alright,” Sam says. “Your time is almost up anyways. Let me know when you’re ready to go.”

Right.

Dream forgot that-- that George has to leave.

He feels somewhat pathetic at the thought of it. 

“Alright,” George murmurs. “Thank you, Sam.” He turns back to Dream, his eyes swimming with an emotion that Dream can’t hope to understand, could never parse no matter how hard he tried. “I-- I’ll see you… tomorrow.”

Tomorrow-- a concept that draws ever closer but never really ends.

“Dream.”

Dream shudders at the way his name leaves George’s mouth, soft and sad. 

_I wish you could stay here forever._

_With me._

Is what he would say if he was braver.

But he can’t say that, can’t bring that kind of hurt onto George.

So instead he has to be content with tomorrow.

Tomorrow, which feels lightyears away. 

“Yeah, okay,” Dream replies shakily. The sadness is painfully visible in George’s eyes-- it suffocates him, blankets him in a stifling cold. His willpower cracks at the seams, the cracks deepening as he watches George’s expression. “O-okay, George.”

George tries to smile. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes, not by a long shot. It almost struggles to creep across his lips, looks like George is struggling to even pull the expression into place. 

“I--” George’s lips part to speak again, but he’s interrupted. 

“Time’s up, George.”

George turns, his eyes suddenly desperate-- as if he can’t believe the time has slipped by them again, the sand in the hourglass slipping away, faster and faster and faster. 

Dream’s stomach twists in silent desperation. 

He wants to be— to be selfish, to ask for George to stay longer, to ask for George to _be here,_ with him— and yet he knows he’s in no position to be making those kinds of demands. 

“I— yeah, give me a second?” George calls across the lava. 

Dream hears Sam make a noncommittal noise. 

“Sure, but be quick about it,” is Sam’s reply. 

George looks back at Dream, his gaze unreadable. 

Does George want more time?

Does he wish that time could— could stop, hold still, could _extend_ so that he and Dream wouldn’t— wouldn’t have to— 

George’s voice is very small as he speaks, his voice reverberating through the cell. 

“... bye.” 

As George steps towards the pool of water, readying himself to leave, he pauses for a second. Dream can’t see what George is doing, but he watches as George tugs at something on his arm, and then in a flash, George whirls around and throws the friendship bracelet at Dream. 

It hits his chest with a soft thump. It almost hurts— and yet not quite either. He looks down at the beads, the orange and green.

“I’m coming back,” George says. “For it.” George’s gaze is so _distant_ , so resolved. And yet, Dream can almost see the quiet _for you_ in his expression— and he tries to believe that George will come back. 

He should, right? 

“... tomorrow,” George says with a tone of finality. That this is it. He’s leaving, and there’s nothing Dream can say to make him stay. 

“Goodbye, Dream.” 

Dream’s never been a fan of goodbyes. 

Something about them always sticks in his throat.

They’re too conclusive, too somber, and their implications too clear. 

He stares up at George, landing somewhere between awestruck and heartbroken. This shouldn’t be such a fine line to walk on, but it feels like the tensest tightrope act. He lifts up the bracelet, squeezing the weathered string close to his chest. A small object, an _attachment_ — reaching out for something to hold him together. To hold him together until tomorrow, where he can see George. 

And yet, he feels like he’s reaching out for George more than anything. 

As he squeezes it to his chest, uses both his hands to envelop it, he speaks again. His voice nearly gives out as he whispers, 

“Goodbye, George.” 

George gives Dream a softened look. His expression is once again conflicted-- it’s hard to tell what emotion he’s trying to convey, what he really means, if he means anything at all. His lips part a little, as if to say something, but then his expression shifts as he steps towards the back of the cell.

“Sam, I’m ready to go,” George says quietly.

“Alright,” Sam replies. “Step towards the hole in the back. It’ll be quick.”

George does as he’s told, stepping towards the hole-- and a sudden _crack_ rings through the air as a splash potion rains down, hitting George square in the chest.

  
Dream knows it’s supposed to happen, knows this is the only way for visitors to leave the prison--

And yet his heart still _hurts_ when he sees George’s body seize and go limp, slamming against the ground. His heart still hurts as he watches George flicker away, his body pulling itself back to his spawn point. Pulling away from Dream, _leaving_ him alone here--

He’s alone. 

He’s so alone. 

The silence reverberates through the walls of his cell, makes his head spin. The clock ticks ever so slightly, just beyond the threshold where he can tune it out. His ears are ringing. His brain is having trouble processing the damage he just caused, he’s _been_ causing-- yet-- yet also fixed, in a strange way. He’s not quite sure what to make of it. The harder he tries to think about it, the closer he feels to breaking, to withering into wet kindling that can’t be reignited.

He inhales a breath, tries to steady himself. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to _focus_. Tries ineffectually to will the thoughts in his head to stop brewing a stormcloud behind his eyes, brings his arms up to rub at his eyes with the heels of his palms, only to feel a faint scrape of something rough against his skin.

Dream’s eyes shoot open.

The bracelet.

He’d nearly forgotten that George had given it to him.

Dream’s fingers tremble a little as he lifts it up, turns the beads in his fingers.

Sapnap’s bead still has rough edges from where he’d clumsily wrapped the snake of clay around his finger and didn’t even bother to smooth it. Parts of it are unpainted, unrefined. And yet it’s so _Sapnap_ that Dream’s heart hurts. His own bead has been smoothed down expertly and glazed with a careful hand-- he’d remembered poring over it for hours, making sure his fingerprints weren’t on the clay. 

He rolls the bracelet in his hand now, looks at the frayed blue string.

He raises it to his lips, pressing the string against them.

_Fuck._

Dream blinks hard, realizing that his vision is starting to cloud-- and then he realizes he’s crying again.

The tears pour, incessant and nonstop.

He doesn’t even have the strength to lift his hands to rub at his eyes anymore, the bitter fatigue of everything having already sunk into his bones.

_I’m sorry,_ he thinks. _I’m so, so, so, sorry._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this. If this is the first time you've read anything by me, hi! I'm Kath. I write Lucky Charm (check it out, it's basically got everything this fic offers except it's about eight times longer and actually has romance) alongside two other co-creators, one of which helped me out with this story. Their name's Stick. Thanks for brainrotting with me when we were both deliriously tired and feeling sad.
> 
> Songs I listened to while penning this:  
> \- Heat Waves (Stripped Back) - Glass Animals  
> \- I Was Wrong - The Oh Hellos  
> \- Rearview - SAD Takes - Run River North


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